


you are weak and hollow (and it doesn’t matter anymore)

by chloebaeprice



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, I'm Sorry, i'm ashamed for writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4540098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chloebaeprice/pseuds/chloebaeprice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Still believe me to be a hero?” Her voice is rough with gleaming knives, determination to shatter her hero image and the building sensitivity of her fangs, the sharpness of them cutting into her lower lip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are weak and hollow (and it doesn’t matter anymore)

**Author's Note:**

> Let it be known that I don't think Carmilla would ever actually rape Laura, but I felt like writing a what-if scenario of such a thing. If you want an idea of when this fic is taking place and the context for it, I envisioned it as a scene that was happening after their argument in the beginning of the episode No Heroics, if Carmilla hadn't left and Danny wasn't listening in.

_you do this, you do._

_you take the things you love_

_and tear them apart_

_or you pin them down with your body and pretend they’re yours._

—richard siken, a primer for the small weird loves

 

 

 

 

“Get off me.”

The fear present in Laura’s voice rings in her ears, her movements indicating her desire to escape only serving to increase her need to keep her body pinned beneath her.

She persists, constricting her wrists in a cruel grip and continuing her brutal thrusts inside her, coating her fingers in her (surprisingly) wet flesh, selfishly seeking out Laura’s pleasure, wanting her to come apart, to tear her open from the inside out and revel in afflicting her with bloodless pain.

She has the imagined taste of salt on her tongue, a bitter tang, allowing herself to ignore restraint and giving into temptation—drawing those lovely distressed cries from Laura’s mouth only results in her moving more frantically, relentlessly pushing within her—oh how tempting it is to drink from her like this, bringing her unwelcome pleasure. All the more delicious if she wrings from her unwilling body searing pain, ruining the notion that she is a hero by sinking into her supple neck with all the roughness of a beast, primal instinct driving her to drain yet another girl dry. That is what becomes of the ones not sensible to run from the monster lurking in the shadows.

Mouth contorting into a savage smile, shoving her fingers harder, lifting and pushing onto her knees to gain leverage, shifting her wrist to accommodate the angle and crushing Laura’s wrists with her other hand until she is sure bruises will form.

Quickly and before she can lose the courage to, she lifts her bone strewn hand, the color of haunting ghosts and foggy cemeteries, to clench at Laura’s throat with mild pressure, just enough for her to acknowledge its presence without using the full strength she is capable of.

“Still believe me to be a hero?” Her voice is rough with gleaming knives, determination to shatter her hero image and the building sensitivity of her fangs, the sharpness of them cutting into her lower lip.

Do you, my darling love, do you?

The memory of Laura asking—no, demanding (like Maman’s gutting words, controlling her like a puppet to do her bidding) that she kill the only family she has left, Maman already destroyed at the hands of a sword and Will’s corpse degraded, tarnished and used as a vessel.  

She knows how the stories go—she is not the knight in shining armor come to rescue the damsel in distress from the monster. She has always been the monster, after she was turned, groomed and perfected as Maman pleased.

And long after Laura and all her friends have died, she will live on and will bring death wherever she goes, the cycle continuing as it always has.

The characters change but the story stays the same: The monster convinces itself that it is capable of loving another and the monster never learns better. The disappointment always comes because the monster is always foolish enough to feel hope. You would think that after centuries of living the monster would have learned by now that hope is a dangerous thing, far more dangerous than the monster itself and that kind of lesson is enough to ruin anyone (stone cannot love flesh).

Opening herself up to love again, being vulnerable, something she has not done since she was with Ell—it was all for nothing.


End file.
